UC-NRLF 


OUT  O 


ByPANNY 
HODGES 


CO 
vD 


MESSRS.  PAUL  ELDER  &?COMPANY 
DESIRE  TO  ANNOUNCE  THE  PUB 
LICATION  of  "OUT  OF  BONDAGE" 
A  VOLUME  OF  POEMS  BY  FANNY 
HODGES  NEWMAN, Ojficier  dXcad'emie 
AUTHOR  offetip VENTURERS  AND 
OTHER  P0EMS,"  TO  APPEAR  ON 
THE  FIRSt  OF  DECEMBER  IN  A 
•BEAUTIFUL  LIMITED  EDITION- 


*£/« 


.' 


MRS.  NEWMAN'S  verse  is  distin 
guished  by  exceptional  artistry  and 
restraint  and  evinces  genuine  poetic 
thought.  In  writing  of  it  to  the  author, 
Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  says:  "There 
is  no  reason  whatever  why  you  should 
not  send  your  verse  to  any  publication 
which  desires  the  best  articles.  'Tripoli' 
.is  good,  vigorous  verse  and  'The  Ques 
tion*  is  unhackneyed  and  free  from  the 
commonplace.  .  .  It  is  not  the  usual 
verse."  And  Bertha  F.  Gordon  writes: 
CCI  must  drop  everything  long  enough  to 
tell  you  how  wonderful  your  poems  seem 
to  me.  .  .  I  find  that  my  feeling  about 
them  is  quite  beyond  words.  Your  point 
of  view  is  refreshingly  new  and  your  philos 
ophy  of  the  heartsome  kind.  You  owe  it 
to  the  reading  public  to  put  your  book 
into  the  book  market." 

And  from  Herbert  R.  Gibbs,  Editorial 
Rooms,  Houghton,  Mifflin  Company, 
comes  the  following  appreciation:  "Mrs. 
Newman's  work  in  'Adventurers'  is  re 
freshingly  unusual.  .  .  It  has  individu 
ality  of  thought,  feeling  and  form,  more 
than  can  be  attributed  to  most  of  the 
present  day  verse  makers  whose  work  I 
see  in  magazine,  book  or  manuscript.  .  .  I 


IV t  find  evidence 
of  real  poetic  gift 
in  ' '  Adventurers.  *  * 
The  author  hat 
ideas.    Witness  the 
following  poem  and 
title.  Paleolithic 
Man. —  Current 
Literature, 


The  Nation  uset  as 
an  example  of  the 
adaptation  of  mod 
ern  rhythms  to 
modern  thought  the 
lines  to  Paleolithic 
Man  from  Mrs. 
Newman's  "Ad- 


! 


The  -writer  hat  em 
bodied  the  lateit 
religious  and  scien 
tific  thought  in  the 
most  artittic  and 
musical  verse  ever 
emanating  from 
California. — Bertha 
Monroe  Rickojf. 


note  the  echo  of  the  older  poets,  Brown 
ing  for  instance,  in  <A  Confession/  Two 
things  that  please  me  are  the  compactness 
and  restraint  of  pieces  like  'At  Bed-Time' 
and  'Language/  and  the  successful  use  of 
the  quatrain." 


Among  tht  special 
gems  marked  are : 
"  Anointed," 
"  The  Water   Hya 
cinth,"  "Lan 
guage"  "  Mortal 
ity,  "etc.  —Eli-zabeth 
A.  Reed. 


PREFACE.  "I,  painting  from  my  self  and 

•*•     tO  myself,  knOW  What  I  do"    Andre*  del  Sarto. 

To  make  a  fresco,  a  symphony,  an  epic  at 
the  command  of  kings  is  the  task  of  gen 
ius;  it  is  the  privilege  of  the  unchapleted 
singer  to  turn  aside  from  labor  now  and 
then  and  make  what  music  he  can.  Such 
an  one  is  seldom  wise,  but  always  he 
would  be  kind  and  if  any  comrade  ask 
him:  "Sing  us  of  your  songs  again,"  he 
gladly  gathers  of  his  best  and  makes  a 
writing  of  them  that  they  may  be  heard 
once  more  by  those  who  will.  He  gives 
them  all  because  he  loves  them  and  each 
one  is  a  meaning  of  himself.  Nor  would 
the  counsel  of  friends  help  him  in  choos 
ing,  for  there  are  as  many  likings  and  dis- 
likings  as  there  are  folk  to  hear.  He, 
singing  from  himself  and  to  himself  is 
happy.  In  the  repetition  he  can  give  no 
less  than  all  that  made  him  so. 


m»     deckle  j,,  genune 

Lo»b"'1l>°"  ,   Lombard,. 


FLEUR-DE-LIS  EDITION 

THIS  EDITION,  DONE  ON  ITAL 
IAN  HAND -MADE  PAPER,  IS 
LIMITED  TO  TWO  HUNDRED 
AND  FIFTY  COPIES,  OF  WHICH 
THIS  IS  ND.  V  7 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE 

BY  FANNY  HODGES  NEWMAN 

Officier  d' Academic 

AUTHOR  OF  "AD VENTURERS"  AND 
OTHER  POEMS 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 


Copyright,  1913 
by  Paul  Elder  ff»  Company 


SALUTATION 

IF  ANY  MEET  ME  IN  THE 

WAY,  I  GREET  HIM 

SINGING! 


270560 


"I,  painting  from  myself  and 
to  myself,  know  what  I  do." 
— Andrea  del  Sarto. 

PREFACE 

make  a  symphony,  an  ode,  an 
epic,  at  the  command  of  kings,  is 
the  task  of  genius;  it  is  the  privi- 
lege  of  the  unchapleted  singer  to 
turn  aside  from  labor  now  and  then  and 
make  what  music  he  can.  Such  an  one  is 
seldom  wise,  but  always  he  would  be  kind 
and  if  any  comrade  ask  him:  "Sing  us  those 
songs  once  more, "  he  gladly  gathers  of  his 
best  and  makes  a  writing  of  them  that  they 
may  be  heard  again  by  those  who  would 
listen.  He  gives  them  all  because  he  loves 
them,  all,  and  each  one  is  a  meaning  of  him" 
self.  Nor  would  the  counsel  of  his  friends 
help  him  in  the  choosing,  for  there  are  as 
many  likings  and  dislikings  as  there  are 
folk  to  hear.  He,  singing  from  himself  and 
to  himself,  is  happy.  In  the  repetition 
he  can  give  no  less  than  all  that 
made  him.  so. 


V 


CONTENTS 

Preface  . 

Out  of  Bondage    . 

Enthusiasm . 

Fog     .... 

Martyrs . 

Cause  Celebre 

Survival 

The  Question 

Purveyance  . 

Futility     . 

Haven     . 

The  Long  Time    . 

Commerce    . 

A  Seashore  Fancy 

Certainty 

The  Leader    . 

Tyranny 

Morning  . 

Change   . 

Petition    . 

Out  of  The  Harbor 

In  Exile    . 

Highland  Hunger 

Hazard     . 

Mortality 

The  Field  Singer. 

Csesar     . 

City  Bygone  . 

A  Meditation 

Wild  Mustard 

The  Shadow 

Limitations  . 

War  . 


v  To  Paleolithic  Man  .      .50 

3  Abelard  to  Heloise     .       .52 

4  The  Ring      ....     53 

5  Edict  Royal   .      .      .      .54 

6  Burial 55 

8  Antoinette  and  Her  Gaolers  5  6 

11  The  Western  Sea       .      .  58 

12  Heimweh     .       .       .       .59 

14  Found 60 

15  The  Wave    ....     62 

16  Treasure  Trove   ...     63 

18  Repudiation.      .  .64 

19  Idealists 66 

20  The  Hermit.       ...     67 

22     Babylon 70 

24  The  Fig  Tree      ...     72 

26  San  Francisco       .      .      .73 

27  The  Enemy.      ...     74 

28  Mirage 76 

29  The  Harvest       ...     77 

30  Audience 78 

32  A  Toast  to  Spring     .       .     80 

33  The  Riders     ....  82 

36  The  Hour     ....    83 

37  The  Sea  My  Brother .       .  84 

38  Little  Fields  O'Summer.     86 

40  The  Summit     .     .      .      ,  87 

41  Language      ....     88 

44     Fare  On! 89 

<r5  Monotony                         .     90 

46  Humiliation    .       .       .       .91 

48  The  Runner        .      .      .92 
49 


VII 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE 

X  STAND  on  the  outermost  brink, 
As  far  as  the  path  may  be  trod, 
Where  mortal  brain  must  cease  to  think 
And  the  heart  cries  out  for  God. 

His  temple  gateway  is  here 

Where  I  see  but  the  void  abyss; 

But  I  know  I  am  His  and  I  need  not  fear, 

And  I  tell  my  Maker  this: 

I  am  not  afraid  to  be  Man; 
To  be  atom  where  Thou  art  Whole; 
To  take  my  place  in  the  august  plan 
That  circles  Thee  and  my  soul. 


ENTHUSIASM 


T 


T  were  better  for  man  to  climb  the  steep, 
Though  he  risk  misstep  and  fall; 

It  were  better,  climbing,  to  sweat  his  blood 
Than  to  feel  no  urge  at  all. 

It  were  oetter  for  him  to  seek  the  heights, 
Though  he  leave  the  world  behind, 

Than  to  plow  all  day  in  the  sodden  fields 
And  sleep  as  sleeps  the  hind. 

It  were  better  for  him  to  travel  on 

And  faint  on  the  lonesome  road, 
Than  never  to  suffer  the  thrall  of  dreams 

Nor  the  prick  of  passion's  goad. 

It  were  better  for  man  to  be  scarred  bone-deep, 

Than  never  to  feel  the  fire; 
To  be  seared,  than  never  be  warmed  at  all 

At  the  flame  of  his  soul's  desire. 


FOG 

I  SAW  the  farmer  guide  his  lagging  steed, 
All  in  a  mist  across  the  fallow  field, 
The  while  he  mused  upon  the  winter's  need 
And  reckoned  on  the  summer  harvest  yield, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see  the  skies  were  gray; 

I  thought,  "This  is  a  boundless  plain  he  tills;" 
Then  came  the  sun  and  drank  the  fog  away; 

I  trembled  at  the  glory  of  the  hills. 


MARTYRS 

have  been  broken  on  the  wheel; 

Sing  hey,  a  merry  roundelay, 
We  are  the  waking  folk  who  feel; 
We  are  the  dreaming  folk  who  kneel; 

Sing  ho,  the  world  that  said  us  nay! 

We  had  a  faith  and  gave  it  place; 

Sing  ho,  for  hearts  schismatical, 
The  kings  they  made  of  it  disgrace 
And  brought  us  to  a  bitter  case; 

Sing  hey,  a  lilting  madrigal! 

They  stretched  us  on  the  creaking  rack; 

Sing  brother  love  and  hardihood, 
They  grinned  to  hear  our  shoulders  crack 
And  bent  theirs  to  the  twisting-jack; 

Sing  ho,  for  torture  twice  withstood! 

They  did  God  service,  so  they  said; 

Sing  matins,  all,  and  vesper  song, 
And  poured  Him  potions  when  we  bled; 
We  nigh  believed  our  gods  were  dead; 

Sing  hey,  sing  ho,  the  time  was  long! 

The  wheel  that  wrenched  us  turns  no  more; 

Sing  canticles  of  jubilee, 
The  rack  is  bleached  of  stains  it  bore, 
But  in  our  limbs  the  scars  are  sore; 

Sing  Christus  on  the  gallows  tree! 


Oh,  kings  live  long,  though  kings  be  dead; 

Sing  ho,  ye  Sons  of  Liberty, 
When  Common  Right  shall  come  instead 
And  staunch  the  wounds  now  spurting  red, 

Sing  hey,  the  world  for  such  as  wet 


CAUSE  CELEBRE 

'ASTERS  and  Moulders  of  the  Things-that-be, 
High  Jury  of  Creation,  hear  all  ye 
The  ancient  quarrel  'twixt  the  gods 
and  me! 


t^JL  JL  V^  V^l    * 

CD 


And  first  I  give  due  thanks  where  thanks  are  due; 
For  worlds  that  whirl  upon  their  stems  for  you; 
For  stars  that  pink  out  patterns  in  the  blue; 

For  wide  gray  seas  that  flow  upon  the  deep, 
And  that  which  is  committed  to  them  keep, 
Far  down  the  caverns  and  the  glooms  of  sleep; 

For  towering,  purple  shouldered  hills,  that  lift 
Cloud  circled  heads  to  the  empyreal  drift 
And  down  their  flanks  prolific  ashes  sift; 

For  all  fair  gardens  and  the  outstretched  plain; 
For  pasture  lands  and  fallow  fields  and  grain 
And  pools  that  give  refreshment  after  rain; 

For  that  primeval  Samson,  underneath 
The  groined  arches  of  his  house  of  death, 
Whereof  we  feel  the  struggles  and  whose  breath 
Breaks  forth  in  fury  at  the  geyser-seams, 
Times  when  he  wakes  and,  ravening  at  earth's 

beams, 
Would  realize  his  cataclysmal  dreams; 


8 


Thanks  for  the  glory  of  these  many  gifts 
And  for  the  unleashed  wind,  besides,  that  lifts 
The  old  leaves  from  my  soul  and  thereon  sifts 
What  all  he  gathers,  in  his  wanderings, 
Of  fresh  and  sweet:  perfume  of  growing  things, 
Rose  pollen,  star  dust  and  the  spoor  of  kings. 

Yet  is  my  least  thanksgiving  for  all  these. 
Remains  what  gives  delight  its  high  degrees; 
Man  in  the  mass,  and  man  by  twos  and  threes! 

Man,  that  so  lately  got  him  to  his  feet, 
Disputing  with  the  beasts  his  bed  and  meat, 
Lifting  scarred  hands  the  stolid  skies  to  greet; 

Contriving  cities  in  the  waste  moraine 

At  last,  and  shrines  whereof  yourselves  were  fain, 

(Reward  him  for  his  patience  and  his  pain!) 

And  men,  my  brothers,  standing  by  my  side, 
Launching  their  ships  with  mine  upon  the  tide 
That  shall  bring  bread  or  bounty  back,  or  bride. 

Their  comradeship  is  as  my  soul  to  me; 

Their  faith,  my  foothold;  my  felicity, 

Their  good;  our  manifold  identity, 

That  tense  and  tenuous  tissue  in  whose  mesh 

Are  held  the  issues  of  the  soul-in-flesh; 

Its  flax,  the  gods  from  our  heart-harvests  thresh. 

Something  it  is  to  have  been  counted  worth 
A  share  in  the  moot  heritage  of  birth, 
At  all  to  be  among  the  sons  of  earth; 


To  tread  the  foot-worn  highway  in  the  stir 
That  marks  Life's  journey  to  the  sepulchre; 
To  meet  Love's  lady  there  and  walk  with  her. 
•        •        •        •        • 

Now  is  my  cause,  O  ye  that  safely  dwell 
Beyond  this  tottering,  finite  citadel, 
That  ye  should  weary  in  your  doing  well; 

That  ye  should  fill  such  wells  of  wonder  up 
And  give  me  for  my  draught  so  small  a  cup. 
Ye  drive  me  from  the  inn  before  I  sup 
And  draw  the  curtain  while  there  yet  is  light. 
To  live,  ye  give  me  till  the  noon  is  bright; 
To  love,  the  phantom  passage  of  a  night 

Once  had  my  unassembled  atoms  place 

In  the  vast  leisure  of  prenatal  space. 

Then  was  no  haste;  then  had  an  hour  no  grace. 

Giving  all  else  with  lavishness  sublime, 

Why  portion  me  so  brief  my  manhood's  prime? 

Ye  Gods,  why  be  so  niggardly  with  time? 


10 


SURVIVAL 

IO VE  is  a  storm  that  first  with  rosy  lights 
And  little  breathless  airs,  comes  down  the 

sky; 

Then  with  swift  fury  of  the  tempest,  blights 
The  garden  of  the  heart  and  passes  by. 

Evenings  return  and  mornings  come  again 
And  shed  soft  dews  upon  the  ruined  place; 

Noons  bring  bright  ardors  and  the  toil  of  men, 
And  lo,  a  new  succeeds  the  ancient  grace! 

From  ravaged  roots  springs  up  a  hardier  green; 

The  songs  of  nesting  birds  bestir  the  trees, 
And  where  the  vivid  orchid  flamed,  are  seen 

Blossoms  of  heartsease;  Comrade,  look  at  these! 

Exotics  and  frail  annuals  are  gone, 
Yet,  in  their  place,  are  rose  and  cyclamen; 

O  Heart,  such  brave  renewals  we  have  won, 
Shall  we  not  bid  Love  visit  us  again? 


11 


THE  QUESTION 

if  there  be, 

Beyond  our  tides  and  times, 
Past  the  day's  outposts  and  the  night's 

frontier, 

After  this  mortal  play  of  masks  and  mimes, 
When  we  are  spent,  no  greeting  and  no  cheer 
For  you  and  me? 

What  if  there  dawn 

No  morrow  on  to-day; 

No  hour  worth  waiting  for  in  toil  and  tears, 

When  Hope  shall  find  her  guerdon,  Love  her  way; 

Shall  we  take  up  the  burden  of  the  years 

And  still  go  on? 

What  if  there  fall, 

Out  of  the  vaster  blue 

In  which  our  little  sky  is  hung,  no  word 

That  is  your  name  for  me  and  mine  for  you, 

That  always  faith-enchanted  ears  have  heard; 

Life's  nuptial  call? 

What  if  no  God, 

Nor  gods  of  good  and  ill, 

Laid  out  this  pattern  that  we  weave  so  fast, 

But  nomad  Nothing,  roving  without  will, 

Chanced  on  that  mould  where  earth-phantasms 

are  cast 
And  spilled  abroad 


12 


Stardust  of  gold, 

Rainbows  of  blue  and  red, 

Circean  incense  and  cerulean  air 

And  beauty  for  a  halo  round  your  head, 

And  sunbeams  like  these  fillets  of  your  hair; 

And  warmth  and  cold, 

And  death  and  spring? 

And  say  He  never  meant 

To  gather  up  again  His  scattered  stuff, 

And  question  our  poor  souls  which  way  they  went, 

And  heal  our  hurts  and  pour  us  wine  enough; 

Still  shall  we  sing? 


13 


PURVEYANCE 


e> 


HIS  myrtle  mound  that  sucks  up  all  my 

tears, 

It  is  my  flesh  its  roots  are  matted  in; 
Its  beauty  thrives  on  mine  that  disappears; 

For  I  am  in  the  ground  deep  as  have  been 
The  sweets  of  all  my  children  buried  there. 

O  Earth,  O  Life,  what  bounty  dost  thou  think 
To  barter  for  such  matchless  meat  and  drink, 
And  what  art  thou,  to  batten  on  such  fare? 


14 


FUTILITY 

E  thunder  of  colliding  spheres, 
The  song  of  yonder  star, 
I  hear  not  with  my  dullard  ears 
That  are  from  heaven  so  far. 

And  all  the  searching  of  these  eyes 

Will  not  suffice  to  see 
A  ray  beyond  the  few  that  rise 

On  day  and  night  for  me. 

Yet  eons,  as  they  circle  round 

Unmindful  of  the  earth, 
Concern  me  as  I  till  the  ground 

For  burying  and  birth. 

The  sun  in  his  gigantic  hour, 
Fixed  and  foretold  of  God, 

Feels  inly  pulsing  just  the  power 
Wherewith  I  turn  the  sod. 

Perchance  as  vainly  he  demands 
Why  suns  must  quench  so  soon, 

As  I  who  lift  two  mortal  hands 
And  clamor  for  the  moon. 


15 


HAVEN 

/N  earth's  rude  travail  has  outwearied  me, 
And  world  endeavors  all  have  lost  their  zest, 
Then  will  I  take  the  highroad  to  the  sea 
And  lie  upon  the  sands  daylong  and  rest. 

There  will  not  be,  as  far  as  eye  can  reach, 
A  shadow,  but  for  mine,  upon  that  place; 

The  very  gulls  that  fish  along  the  beach 
Will  wheel  away  in  friendliness  a  space. 

The  sun  will  pour  his  glitter  on  my  knees, 
And  I  will  shake  my  hair  and  bend  my  head, 

And  empty  out  my  thoughts  and  be  at  ease, 
Foretasting  silence  as  one  lying  dead. 

Voices  of  shoreward  waves  and  distant  swell 
Will  gather  dimly  in  my  muted  ear, 

Which  will  contain  them  as  the  empty  shell 
The  soft  sea-sounds  it  holds  but  cannot  hear. 

At  full  high-tide,  the  waters  at  my  feet 
Will  curl  white  fingers  in  a  cool  caress, 

And  spread  a  shimmer  for  a  winding  sheet, 
In  pity  of  my  harried  humanness. 

Yet,  though  I  dip  deep  fathoms  into  death, 

I  still  will  lie  upon  the  edge  of  life 
So  high,  that  the  frail  tissue  of  my  breath 

Shall  not  be  broken  in  the  plashing  strife. 


16 


L?  envoi 

When  heavy  tasks  have  over-burdened  me, 
And  toil  and  travail  have  outworn  my  hands, 

Along  the  highroad  will  I,  to  the  sea, 
And  take  my  rest  upon  the  shining  sands. 


17 


THE  LONG  TIME 

OUGH  years  pass  by  and  fortune  does  not 

come, 

Let  us  not  question  why  is  joy  so  late; 
While  birds  are  singing  we  may  well  be 

dumb; 
While  roses  blossom,  Dearest,  we  can  wait. 

The  fields  of  life  are  wide  and  full  of  grain; 

Let  us  turn  back  from  peering  through  the  gate, 
And  help  to  load  the  common  harvest  wain; 

If  we  are  helping  others,  we  can  wait. 

The  earth  is  dreary  and  its  paths  are  rough; 
Crooked  they  are;  fall  to  and  make  them  straight 

And  point  out  pitfalls!   There  is  time  enough; 
The  while  we  serve  we  can  forget  we  wait. 

Then  when  the  noontide  comes,  and  afternoon, 
And  we  look  up  and  see  it  growing  late, 

Behind  the  sunset  hangs  the  little  moon; 
Till  the  night  comes,  Beloved,  we  can  wait. 


18 


COMMERCE 

HEY  all  have  dealings  with  the  sun, 

Blind  roots  beneath  the  sod, 
As  have  dull  mortals  every  one, 
Somewhat  to  do  with  God. 


19 


A  SEASHORE  FANCY 

I  CHOOSE  to  make  my  bed  beside  the  sea. 
A  restless  bedfellow,  he  is,  and  rough, 
But  I  can  trust  him,  and  the  earth  can  be, 
For  all  her  stillness,  ominous  enough. 

He  does  not  let  me  sleep  the  long  night  through, 
But  wakes  me  often,  grumbling  at  his  bed, 

And  saves  me  sometimes  from  a  dream's  ado 
Or  gives  me  respite  from  pursuing  dread. 

Ill  is  it,  in  the  peopled,  inland  night, 
To  lie  time-weary  in  a  niche  of  walls 

That  shut  out  distances  and  stars  from  sight, 
That  turn  away  the  Westwind  when  he  calls. 

They  batten  out  the  forest's  friendly  din, 
While  in  the  street  the  slayer  finds  his  prey, 

And  money-changers  count  the  gains  of  sin 
In  stealthy  silence,  between  day  and  day. 

The  tears  that  fall  upon  the  midnight  pave 
And  mingle  with  the  morning's  honest  dust, 

From  noiseless  fountains  fall  and  noiseless  lave 
The  muddy  footprints  of  the  feet  of  lust. 

The  stillness  of  the  city  is  her  crime: 
Her  sirens  sing  in  whispering  undertones; 

Her  malefactors  work  in  pantomime; 
You  do  not  hear  her  pick  her  victim's  bones. 


20 


I  choose  the  sea,  that  murmurs  all  night  long. 

I  call  to  him  and  laugh  and  reach  my  hands 
Toward  his  that  are  so  boisterously  strong 

And  yet  so  clumsy,  clawing  at  the  sands. 

The  town  could  turn  upon  me  in  my  sleep 
And  wreak  her  evils  on  my  pillowed  head, 

But  this  great  bedfellow  of  mine  will  keep 
His  watch  beside  me  till  the  night  be  sped. 


21 


CERTAINTY 

H  oriole  and  mocking-bird 
^t  home  in  all  the  trees, 
Once  more  the  voice  of  Spring  is  heard, 
A-trill  with  April  glees. 

And  robin-red  and  nightingale 

And  bobolink  and  lark, 
They  twit  me  sore  for  sitting,  pale 

And  doubting,  in  the  dark. 

"Come  out  into  the  sun,"  they  say, 

"Come  comrade  us  and  sing; 
Prepare  a  welcome  for  the  May 
And  greet  her  on  the  wing." 

Ah,  better  than  my  downcast  soul 

And  wiser  than  my  fears, 
Are  finch  and  thrush  and  oriole 

That  never  doubt  the  years. 

They  know  tonight  will  bring  the  moon, 

Tomorrow  dawn,  the  sun; 
They  know  the  brood  is  coming  soon 

Because  the  nest  is  done. 

They  know  that  daily  bread  is  sure, 

Because  the  earth  is  there 
With  grains  and  grits  and  honey-lure, 

A  sweet  and  ample  fare. 


22 


They  do  not  ask  the  reason  why; 

They  know  that  life  is  good, 
So  steadfast  hangs  the  azure  sky, 

So  stable  stands  the  wood. 

Enough,  I  too  will  soar  and  preen 
And  tune  my  heart  and  sing, 

Because  I  see  God's  woods  are  green 
And  know  it  is  the  spring. 


23 


THE  LEADER 

E  brought  me  here  and  he  bids  me  go; 

He  set  my  feet  in  the  way, 
And  I  must  follow  him,  fain  or  no, 
For  I  may  not  stop  nor  stay. 

His  face,  who  leads,  have  I  never  seen, 
Nor  rightly  have  heard  his  name, 

But  here  in  this  path  his  feet  have  been 
And  out  of  his  house  I  came. 

Sometimes  I  am  fearing  to  cross  his  will, 
When  I  strive  against  the  storm; 

Or  I  feel  his  love,  serene  and  still, 
When  the  skies  are  safe  and  warm. 

Oh,  my  very  soul  yearns  after  him 

And  I  call  him,  Yea,  I  call; 
But  neither  mortals  nor  seraphim 

Make  answer  to  me  at  all. 

How  comes  it  then,  that  I  name  him  good, 
That  I  say  his  road  is  straight, 

When  it  leads  me  elsewhere  than  I  would 
And  ends  at  the  awesome  gate? 

And  why  do  I  more  time  sing  and  smile 
Than  furrow  my  cheek  with  tears, 

When  pitfalls  many  my  steps  beguile 
And  fantasies  stalk  my  fears? 


24 


God  wot;  but  who  is  that  God,  I  say; 

My  leader?  Ah,  who  can  know, 
And  I  will  not  ask,  nor,  where  away? 

But  gird  up  my  heart  and  gol 


25 


TYRANNY 

ROMETHEUS,  take  away  thy  lurid  gift; 
From  man's  rude  hands  thy  flint  and 

tinder  take; 
Else  will  this  earth  be  smothered  with  the 

drift 
Of  ashes  from  the  foundry  and  the  stake! 


26 


MORNING 

OH,  let  me  find  the  morning  on  the  hill 
That  slopes  down  tenderly  to  meet  the  sea, 
Its  dewy  silver  grasses  all  a-thrill 
With  little  breezes  blown  from  tree  to  tree. 

Oh,  let  me  hear  the  birds  that  wake  and  call 
Their  shadowy  neighbors  from  the  early  bough, 

Warning  too  eager  fledglings  lest  they  fall, 
Or  chanting  matins,  let  me  hear  them  now! 

Let  me  escape  this  noisy,  noisome  town, 
With  all  its  pestilential  glooms  and  mires, 

Now,  when  the  sun's  new  beams  strike  vainly  down 
Into  the  murk  that  reeks  of  sooty  fires. 

In  all  my  dreams  I  see  the  rose-roofed  cot 
That  still  clings  warmly  to  the  seaward  slope, 

Where  such  a  recreant  rover  was  begot, 
As  came  down  here,  poor  fool,  to  grind  and  grope. 

Then  give  me  back  the  country  in  the  dawn, 
When  earth  turns  like  a  Parsee  to  her  god; 

Today,  before  I  stumble  and  am  gone, 
Borne  back  too  late  to  that  beloved  sod. 


27 


CHANGE 

'HAT  the  first  oriole  built  him  for  a  nest, 

The  last  will  find  complete  for  his  desires; 
Alas,  for  cave  and  cottage,  with  such  zest 
Humans  discard  the  dwellings  of  their  sires! 


**^JL  -».-*.  -»•-».    •»   V. 

ffi 


28 


PETITION 

HET  me  not  be  the  decorative  leaf 
That,  veined  and  vivid,  flutters  on  the  wall, 
But  that  taut  tendril,  sinewy  and  brief, 
Which  holds  the  vine  but  is  not  seen  at  all. 

Let  me  not  be  the  rose  to  flaunt  and  flare, 
But  rather  the  uncomely  thorn  that  squires 

Defenceless  Beauty,  bidding  him  beware 
Who  rates  her  cheaper  than  his  rash  desires. 

Let  me  not  be  the  lark  that  soars  and  sings, 
Scorning  earth  levels  for  the  lofty  sky, 

But  that  unhonored  bird  whose  summons  rings 
To  wake  repentance-would  himself  were  I! 

Some  humblest  avocation  give  me,  Life; 

In  thy  vast  husbandry  to  walk  apart 
And  glean  up  waste  after  thy  pruning  knife, 

So  Pride  forget  me  that  would  break  my  heart. 


29 


OUT  OF  THE  HARBOR 


ffi 


HEN  the  great  white  ship  that  took  you 

from  me 

Slipped  anchor  and  sailed, 
Of  her  parting  signals  I  heard  but  three, 

Then  sound  failed; 
But  sight  held,  and  I  watched  her  far  on  her  way. 

Tier  on  tier, 
Her  decks  showed  to  the  line  of  the  bay, 

Stood  out  clear, 
Till  she  came  to  the  place  where  the  sea  turns 

Round  the  edge  of  the  world, 
And  was  gone, — where  the  sun  in  the  west  burns,- 

Till  just  her  smoke  curled 
And  spun  back  thinly,  a  long  sweet  thread 

Woven  of  the  fires 
Beneath  you,  and  it  seemed,  while  the  reek  of  it 

spread, 

— As  vapor  expires, — 

Woven  too  of  your  breath  and  your  thoughts 
that  turned  home. 


30 


Then  the  sky  cleared 

And  the  sea,  but  for  one  in-washing  comb 
Where  your  wake  sheared. 
And  I  who  was  watching  stood  vigil  alone, 

At  war  with  my  tears, — 
Sound  of  you,  sight  of  you,  breath  of  you  gone 

For  a  measure  of  years. 

But  I  laughed  in  my  heart  for  the  thing  that  I 
knew, 

Knowing  this:  beyond  sound, 
Beyond  sight,  past  all  region  of  sense,  dear,  for  you 

And  for  me,  the  world  round, 
There's  a  subtile,  tenacious,  ineffable  bond, 

Tried  and  sure, 
Will  hold  us  together  through  life  and  beyond; 

Will  endure 
The  tension  of  aosence,  the  burden  of  years; 

Will  outlast 
The  fretting  of  silence,  corrosion  of  tears. 

Dearest,  love  will  hold  fast. 


31 


IN  EXILE 

iY  lie  somewhere  'twixt  west  and  east, 
The  fields  of  Far-away, 
Where  once  we  made  Love's  harvest  feast 
In  moons  of  yesterday, 

Beside  the  paths  that  turn  and  wind 
Among  the  hills  of  Youth; 
And  there,  alas,  are  left  behind 
The  maiden  wells  of  Truth. 

And  there  are  Memory  and  Hope 
And,  God  be  thanked,  Regret; 
And  on  beyond  the  farthest  slope 
The  sin  we  must  forget. 

There  is  the  Joy  that  would  not  stay 
And  Love  that  is  forby, 
And  on  dear  graves  in  Griefs  array 
The  tangled  grass  is  dry. 

No  doubt  the  fertile  fields  we  plow 
Outyield  the  ancient  loam, 
But  Oh,  to  walk  those  furrows  now, 
For  nowhere  else  is  Home! 


32 


HIGHLAND  HUNGER 

OH,  I  long  for  the  hills  and  the  highlands, 
I  that  am  lowland  born, 
That  live  my  life  in  the  islands 
That  are  farther  east  than  the  morn, 
With  level  waters  about  me 
And  never  a  raised  plateau. 
Brown  and  yellow  and  madder, 

Are  the  listless  hues  of  day, 
And  the  moon,  like  a  blown  white  bladder, 
Drifts  over  night's  pallid  way, 

And  it's  all  of  a  piece  to  flout  me 
That  may  not  arise  and  go. 

I  watch  for  a  ship  in  the  offing, 

With  my  number  on  her  sails, 

But  the  captains  all  come  scoffing 

When  each  enchantment  fails. 

The  spells  I  weave  on  the  water 
And  the  charms  I  say  for  the  wind. 
"Turn  back,  good  waves,"  I  tell  them, 
"Bring  me  the  ship  delayed," 
But  neither  can  I  compel  them 
And  neither  will  they  be  prayed; 

And  my  ship,  has  the  typhoon  caught  her, 
Or  her  pilot  fallen  blind? 


33 


Ho,  there,  what's  that  you  are  saying, 

Young  sailor  that  passed  and  laughed? 
"It's  a  case  of  man's  betraying 
And  my  captain  holds  the  craft 
In  the  sedgy  sea  of  the  sirens, 
Where  the  under  rocks  are  shoal?" 
Do  you  say  my  seamen  languish 

Upon  the  drifting  decks, 
While  of  them  and  their  homesick  anguish 
Little  my  captain  recks, 

Or  of  me  in  these  waste  environs 
That  are  wearing  out  my  soul? 

What  then!   I  can  bear  your  laughter, 

Fishers  and  mariners  all, 
Seeing  that  joy  comes  after; 

For  I  know  that  my  ship  will  call 

Some  day  when  the  mermaids  weary 
Of  captains  blowsy  and  old, 
And  then  I  shall  reach  the  mountains, 

As  in  my  heart  I  dream, 
And  bathe  in  the  drip  of  fountains 
That  fall  from  stream  to  stream, 
From  haunt  of  elf  and  peri 
On  the  upper  cliffs  and  bold. 


34 


I  shall  bind  my  hair  with  laurel, 

The  gift  of  mountain  men, 
And  gather  red  wood-sorrel 
That  is  stranger  to  the  fen, 

And  climb  and  climb  till  climbing 
Turn  this  thin  blood  to  wine, 
With  the  high  sweet  wind's  fermenting 

At  work  in  all  my  veins, 
Till  columned  clouds  are  tenting 
Between  me  and  the  plains 

And  stars  are  chiming,  chiming, 
The  love  songs  of  langsyne. 

They  are  my  songs  ancestral, 

Those  sky-sung  melodies, 
And  not  these  deep,  orchestral 
Descantings  of  the  seas, 

Of  the  waters  all  about  me 
Whose  songs  I  do  not  know. 
For  my  fathers  died  in  the  highlands 

Though  I  was  lowland  born, 
Among  the  folk  of  the  islands 
That  laugh  my  tears  to  scorn. 

I  trow  they  will  laugh  without  me 
When  I  find  my  ship  and  go. 


35 


HAZARD 


OOR  wingless  insect,  crippled  and  astray, 
Behold  him,  as  across  my  path  he  plods! 
He  gropes  toward  blind  disaster  in  my  way 
As  I,  upon  the  highway  of  the  gods. 


36 


MORTALITY 

)NS  rolled  on;  earth's  restless  morning 

dawned; 

By  world  commotions  undisturbed,  I  slept. 
Lacking  the  bitter  sweet  of  consciousness, 
I  nothing  lacked,  desired  not  nor  wept. 

But  now,  by  need  of  Law  or  Love,  I  am. 
Witless  I  reap  and  sow  life's  grain,  and 

then—? 
Prophets  and  seers,  what  then?  O  years  to 

come, 
Come  softly  that  ye  wake  me  not  again! 


37 


THE  FIELD  SINGER 

HE  sang  this  song  under  the  weeping  May, 
All  as  she  went  a-grieving,  that  wan  maid 

Whose  careless  gallant  lingers  leagues  away, 
Where,  stone  to  stone,  the  city's  squares 
are  laid: 

"Sweetheart,  I  would  be  with  you  in  the  rain, 

When  in  the  gentle  night  the  darkness  drips 
Like  tears  that  give  soft  easement  after  pain, 
Brimming  an  April  cup  for  lovers'  lips. 

"I  would  be  with  you  in  some  garden  close, 

You  who  are  city-bound  and  know  not  well 
Those  comely  blooms  that  no  town  huckster  shows, 
Rue  and  rose-mallow  and  bright  asphodel. 

"I  would  be  with  you  in  the  deepest  wood, 

That  aisled  cathedral  of  my  holiest  days, 
To  show  you  where  my  childhood  altars  stood, 
Where  thrushes  taught  me  how  to  sing  God's 
praise. 

"I  would  be  with  you  in  that  stifling  place 
Pale  city  men  call  home,  if  you  must  lie 
With  niggard  shreds  of  moonlight  on  your  face 
That  should  be  bare  to  this  imperial  sky. 

"I  would  be  with  you  in  the  trafficked  street, 

If  it  be  so  you  cannot  come  away 
In  the  next  harvest  time  and  sink  your  feet, 
Deep  after  mine,  into  the  new  mown  hay. 


38 


"I,  in  God's  hinterland  of  open  moor; 

You,  somewhere  lost  between  the  city  gates; 
Apart,  I  in  this  wilderness  am  poor, 

And  you,— will  no  one  tell  you  where  love  waits?' 


39 


CAESAR 

N  all  the  halls  of  the  city, 
In  all  the  streets  of  the  town, 

They  shall  sing  my  name  for  a  ditty, 
As  men  go  up  and  down. 

They  shall  build  me  altars  many; 

They  shall  chant  me  songs  of  grace, 
And  grave  the  votive  penny 

In  the  likeness  of  my  face. 

Yet  not  the  earth  and  not  the  sky, 
Nor  bird  nor  beast  nor  leafy  tree, 

Will  be  the  wiser  when  I  die, 
For  all  the  fame  of  me. 


40 


CITY  BYGONE 

OSES  over  the  old  town  wall, 
And  myrtle  rank  on  the  hill, 
And  never  a  tower  more  to  fall 
At  a  foeman's  hardy  will ! 

For  peace  has  come  to  the  weary  streets 
And  the  old,  grim  gates  are  down, 

Where  hordes  from  buccaneering  fleets 
Once  swarmed  against  the  town. 

A  score  of  years  and  twenty  more, 

The  warfare  waxed  and  waned, 
And  what  was  lost  on  the  open  shore, 

On  the  sheltered  hill  was  gained. 

Rude  hearts  of  men  beat  quick  and  red, 

In  hut  and  castle  hall; 
The  knight  went  armed  to  the  marriage  bed, 

While  his  henchmen  stood  in  call; 

And  the  bride  sprang  up  at  the  warder's  shout, 
At  the  watchman's  summons  shrill; 

She  bound  her  husband's  sword  about 
And  kissed  him  forth  with  a  will. 

And  kissed  him  home  when  he  came  again, 

In  his  dripping  battle  gear, 
And  said:  "Had  you  come  alive  with  your  men 

I  had  loved  you  less,  my  dear." 


41 


She  dipped  her  finger-end  in  the  blood 
Of  his  cloven  cheek,  and  the  sweat, 

And  wrote  on  the  chest  of  sandalwood 
Wherein  was  the  babe's  layette. 

She  wrote:  "I  vow  that  my  son's  right  hand 

Shall  hold  the  sword  of  his  sire, 
Till  cowards  conquer  our  ancient  land 

And  her  men  ride  forth  for  hire." 

But  Trade  came  piping  into  the  town 

And  the  children  followed,  all, 
Nor  marked  when  old  men  laid  them  down, 

With  their  visored  fronts  to  the  wall, 

And  died  for  shame  of  the  trafficked  streets, 

Of  port  and  bastion  gone, 
That  once  stood  fast  when  storming  fleets 

Cast  up  their  hybrid  spawn. 

Oh,  the  castle  is  board  of  trade  and  bank, 

And  the  belfry  calls  to  school; 
The  clink  of  spear  is  the  hammer's  clank 

And  the  sword  is  a  farming  tool. 

Oh,  the  eyes  of  the  younger  men  are  dim 

With  the  reading  of  many  books, 
And  the  maids  are  pale  and  soft  and  slim, 

And  they  go  with  trifling  looks. 

They  have  mingled  saffron  with  good  red  blood, 

And  starved  the  sturdy  veins; 
They  have  thinned  the  crimson  warrior-flood 

With  the  rinsings  of  their  gains. 


42 


L  'envoi 

Roses  cover  the  ruined  wall 
And  myrtle  crowns  the  hill, 

But  the  king's  own  men  lie  under  all, 
In  their  splendid  armor,  still! 


43 


A  MEDITATION 

E  grave  was  never  yet  a  lovely  thing, 
For  all  its  yuletide  snows  and  summer  grass, 
For  all  the  nightingales  that  round  it  sing, 
For  all  the  lilies  growing  there,  alas ! 

The  little  winds,  that  weaving  out  and  in, 
Catch  up  the  scents  of  asphodel  and  rue 

Out  of  the  chalices  where  tears  have  been, 
They  know  not  what  it  was  that  here  befell. 

The  cypress  and  the  willow  and  the  yew, 
Whose  gentle  roots  creep  tenderly  beneath 

And  nourish  them  on  unexampled  dew, 

They  cannot  read  the  runes  on  stone  and  wreath. 

But  all  rejoice  with  Life,  as  in  that  place 

She  brings  her  offspring  to  propitious  birth, 

And  smiles  on  Death,  her  comrade,  for  his  grace 
That  spreads  so  kind  a  feast  for  avid  earth. 

Only  for  us,  who  love  and  longing  know, 

While  all  our  treasures  thitherward  we  bring 

To  lap  in  summer  grass  and  yuletide  snow, 
The  grave  was  never  yet  a  lovely  thing. 


44 


WILD  MUSTARD 
'  X*^^  YEZ,  oyez,  comes  Man  into  the  court 


And  hales  his  ample  mother  to  the  bar, 

Proclaiming  her  a  shameless,  Cyprian  sort; 

Ho,  but  the  fool's  indictment  is  bizarre: 


"Earth  for  a  wanton  do  I  here  arraign, 

Who  flaunts  abroad  her  elemental  need; 
Who  gives  her  sweets  alike  to  gallant  grain 
And  every  graceless,  poor  philandering  weed." 


45 


THE  SHADOW 

Y  shadow  ran  along  the  path  that  day; 

Accoutred,  helmeted,  it  followed  me 
As  I  my  captain,  marching  to  the  fray, 

To  battle  for  a  cause,  to  die,  may  be. 

So  bright  the  sun,  so  very  blue  the  sky, 
How  could  my  shining  country  dream  of  blood? 

Yet  there  were  all  my  mates  and  there  was  I, 
Eager  to  open  veins  to  start  the  flood. 

I  clattered  out  of  town  that  was  my  home, 
That  I  had  loved  so  well,  and  swinging  fast 

I  sang:  "Good-by,  a  soldier  needs  must  roam." 
I  hope  I  kissed  my  mother  as  I  passed. 

Full  many  a  league  I  traveled  for  the  king, 
To  save  the  country  that  was  his  and  mine; 

I  clanked  my  sword  and  made  the  scabbard  ring 
And  always,  when  the  sun  came  out  to  shine, 

There  was  my  shadow  pacing  at  my  side 
To  beat  of  drum  and  lilt  of  battle  tune. 

Sometimes  I  laughed  to  see  his  gallant  stride; 
Sometimes  I  cursed  him  in  the  heat  of  noon 

And  then,  a  long,  long  time,  forgot  him  quite; 

Hell  came  so  hot  I  could  not  stay  nor  stand; 
No  gaunt  familiar  shared  my  gory  plight 

Under  the  foe  that  lost  me  name  and  land. 


46 


Yet  now,  today,  he  skulks  along  the  wall 
I  stand  against  fronting  the  morning  sun; 

They  will  not  shoot  me  blindfold.  When  I  fall, 
Behind  what  alien  will  my  shadow  run? 


47 


LIMITATIONS 

E  Y  have  quenched  my  lighted  eyes, 
But  I  can  feel  the  sun, 
And  I  have  learned  how  touch  is  wise 
From  my  treasures,  one  by  one. 

They  have  bound  my  groping  hands 

That  got  me  right  of  way, 
But  stars  themselves  are  girt  with  bands; 

Do  they  stop  for  that,  or  stay? 

With  gyves  they  have  held  my  feet. 

Well,  hyssop  comes  and  goes 
While  earth  is  warm  and  sun  is  sweet, 

But  the  oak  stands  still,  and  grows. 


48 


WAR 


ORETIME,  in  an  Eden  new  and  sweet, 
In  such  a  field  as  this,  man  walked  with  God 
And  pressed  the  herbage  light  with  peaceful 

feet;— 
Whence  these  torn  footprints  in  a  crimson  sod? 


49 


TO  PALEOLITHIC  MAN 

RESTORED  IN  A  MUSEUM 

Y  Father!  Lo,  thy  hundred  thousand  years 
Are  but  as  yesterday  when  it  is  past. 
Today  thy  very  voice  is  in  mine  ears; 
On  mine  own  mirror  is  thy  likeness  cast. 

Thy  sap  it  is  in  these  my  veins  runs  green; 
Thine  are  these  knitted  thews  of  bone  and  skin; 
This  cushioned  width  lay  once  thy  ribs  between, 
As  my  heart  did  with  thine  its  work  begin. 

Be  it  however  contoured,  this  frail  cup 
That  holds  the  stuff  and  substance  of  my  brain, 
From  thy  prognathic  skull  was  moulded  up; 
Do  I  not  share  with  thee  the  mark  of  Cain? 

Not  I  should  shudder  at  the  thickened  neck, 
Full  from  thy  shoulders  to  thy  sloping  head; 
It  bore  the  brunt  of  many  a  rout  and  wreck 
That  spared  the  slender  loins  whence  I  was  bred. 

Nor  should  I  blush,  my  Father,  seeing  how 
Thy  furry  jowl  is  kindred  to  my  cheek; 
It  shuts  upon  a  tongue,  I  mind  me  now, 
Which  stuttering  spent  itself  that  I  might  speak. 

I  and  my  brothers  roam  this  rich  Today 
Unhindered,  unafraid,  because  thy  feet, 
Stone-bruised  and  heavy  with  primordial  clay, 
God's  winepress  trod  to  make  our  vintage  sweet. 


50 


What  then,  Progenitor?  Shall  we  repay 
Such  debt  in  any  coin  but  filial  love? 
Leave  thy  defenceless  carcase  on  display 
With  fossil  horse  and  pterodactyl  dove? 

For  thee  no  epic  and  no  monument! 

For  lesser  hero,  meaner  pioneer, 

Our  bays  and  honors;  shall  thy  sons  consent 

To  leave  thee  standing  naked,  nameless,  here? 


51 


ABELARD  TO  HELOISE 

Life  is  old  and  barren,  Heloise, 
k°ve  s*ts  s^ent»  mourning  days  like  these; 
When  Earth  confronts  her  moon,  dead  white 

to  white, 

And  paupered  Nature,  laggard  Day  and  Night, 
Go  dumbly  grieving  for  what  used  to  be; 
I  will  ask  God  (for  deathless  love  of  thee 
And  for  repentance  of  the  body's  sin), 
To  let  me,  from  the  pit  I  suffer  in, 
Return  and  make  atoning  pilgrimage. 
I  will  not  fear  the  stillness,  but  engage, 
Searching  the  waste  on  penitential  knees, 
Through  Time's  defacement,  through  Eternity's, 
To  find  this  path  where  now,  forbid,  we  meet, 
And  lip  the  stones  where  once  I  kissed  thy  feet! 


52 


THE  RING 

PIRIT  to  spirit,  from  the  far-away 

I  summon  you  to  take  this  signet,  blue 
As  when  you  kissed  it  on  the  hand  that  lay 
Content  in  yours,  since  I  belonged  to  you. 

You  said:  "Dear  Heart,  I  love  this  curious  stone, 
Carved  by  some  long-forgotten  artisan, 

With  love  words,  likely,  though  the  tongue's 

unknown; 
Another  lover's  gift,  a  talisman. 

Wear  it  for  me  in  life,  and  when  you  die 
Send  it  to  me  across  the  empty  land." 

Do  you  forget  how  long  it  is  that  I 

Have  worn  your  kiss,  and  will  you  understand? 


53 


EDICT  ROYAL 

HE  rose  curled  all  her  petals  over 

And  answered  to  the  bee: 
'From  dallying  with  thyme  and  clover 
Come  not  again  to  me. 

'Patrons  of  every  tavern's  brewing, 

Not  of  my  sweets  may  sup; 
Who  comes  my  heart's  deep  honey  suing, 

Must  quaff  no  other  cup." 


54 


BURIAL 

NDER  the  sea's  cool  edges  lay  me  down, 
With  stones  of  blue-white  beryl  on  my 

breast, 
Glassing  the  azure  heavens  where  stars 

are  sown, 
Those  icy  dregs  of  Time's  old  wine  and  zest. 

Lap  me  in  gelid  seaweed,  head  and  feet, 

And  leave  me  when  the  summer  moon  is  old, 

Else  will  the  lees  of  all  my  red  and  sweet, 
Never,  in  all  the  years  to  come,  be  cold. 


55 


ANTOINETTE  AND  HER  GAOLERS 

the  vaults  of  the  Conciergerie 
It  echoes  still:  "What  ho,  Marie! 
Do  you  weep  for  the  king  or  the  dauphin 
child?" 


v^—  —  -^ 

I 

I 
<^-m^ 


"With  gaolers  quartered,  of  them  reviled, 
I  taste  of  the  bitter  pain  ye  knew, 
Madonna  Mother,  and  thou,  Jesu!" 

Her  head,  that  was  gallant  red  before, 

Bowed  down  till  the  white  hair  curled  to  the  floor, 

Frost  on  its  foulness.  "Up,  Marie! 

The  crown  will  fall  from  your  Majesty." 

"Before  I  came  to  this  drear  mischance 
God's  grace  and  glory  fell  from  France." 

She  turns  to  the  casement,  faint  for  air 
Nor  recks  if  the  day  be  dark  or  fair. 
"  Would  you  ride,  my  lady?  That  you  shall, 
Though  your  coach  wait  long  in  the  rue  Roy  ale." 

"Messieurs,  some  thread  to  mend  my  dress, 
For  shame  of  a  queen  in  her  nakedness." 

"Paris  kept  you  in  gowns  and  hats, 
And  drove  the  poor  to  their  holes  like  rats." 

"Not  one  of  them  but  had  better  state 
Than  I  since  ye  brought  me  in  at  this  gate. 
I  pray  you  a  morsel  of  seemly  food; 
I  cannot  stomach  yon  ration  rude." 


56 


"Since  the  palace  table  is  bare,  'tis  well 
Ye  starve  in  the  fashion  of  gaunt  Michel." 

"If  I  must  stop  at  this  loathly  inn 
Long,  on  my  way  to  the  guillotine, 
An  your  heart  beat  ever  in  human  kind, 
Hang  me  a  curtain  to  pray  behind." 

"Today  all  Paris  shall  see  you  kneel 
Where  the  fiat  of  heaven  descends  in  steel." 

"Now  farewell,  Paris;  France,  farewell; 
God  bring  you  as  quickly  out  of  hell!" 

Then  forth  she  fared  in  her  widowhood, 
Sport  of  women  one  half  as  good. 
"Marie  has  back  her  tresses  red," 
They  laughed,  and  lifted  her  sodden  head. 

Uenvoi 

Marie  Jeanne  Josephe  Antoinette, 

The  lustful  city  it  lingers  yet, 

An  empire  lost  and  none  to  get. 

Today  mayhap  you  had  kept  your  crown, 

Malgre  pride  and  an  ill  renown; 

Glitter  of  gems  and  a  purfled  gown; 

A  wasteful  board  and  an  empty  purse; 

For  men  are  better  though  life  be  worse. 

And  still  in  the  Conciergerie 

The  Voices  wait:  "What  ho,  Marie!" 


57 


THE  WESTERN  SEA 

HY  beauty  is  the  splendid  sapphire  draught 

Jove  poured  to  Venus  out  of  chaliced  gold, 
And  vowed,  because  so  radiantly  she  laughed, 
For  love's  sake  not  to  let  the  world  grow  old. 


58 


HEIMWEH 


o 


H,  I  followed  the  lure  of  loving 
Through  open  fields  and  town, 
And  it  left  me  sighing,  sighing, 
For  I  never  found  my  own. 

Oh,  I  whirled  me  after  pleasure, 
The  moth  with  death's-head  wings, 
But  she  kept  on  flying,  flying, 
Till  now  remembrance  stings. 

And  I  hurled  me  after  profit, 

So  fast  I  never  turned 

Where  the  poor  were  crying,  crying, 

For  the  bread  I  had  not  earned. 

Oh,  I  followed  the  lust  of  roving 
To  the  seven  far  hills  of  Rome, 
And  here  I  am  dying,  dying, 
With  my  heart  turned  vainly  home. 


59 


FOUND 

ERE,  where  they  lie  forgotten  and  forgetting, 

I  found  her,  my  beloved,  in  this  place! 
Her  pearly  body  stained  with  bruise  and 

wetting, 
Her  young  hair  torn  and  heavy  on  her  face. 

This  curled  small  hand  that  once,  with  facile  fingers, 
Crept  up  and  down  the  hollows  of  my  cheek 

And  made  a  writing  that  in  anguish  lingers, 
Has  dabbled  in  Oblivion  a  week. 

And  though  they  wash  it  free  from  mire  and  rushes, 
I,  I  can  show  you  how  my  soul's  strong  thews 

Are  tangled  in  its  grasp  that  tears  and  crushes 

And  from  my  heart  wrings  down  blood-salted  dews. 

Let  me  not  look  upon  that  mouth's  distortion, 
Whose  utmost  beauty  formed  upon  my  name, 

Whose  first  kiss  and  the  last  have  been  my  portion, 
Mine,  who  have  come  to  judgment  for  my  blame. 

Nor  show  me  how  those  supple  feet  are  broken, 
That  folded  once  like  rose  leaves  in  my  palm; 

That  came  the  long  path  bringing  me  love's  token; 
That  took  my  kisses  to  their  ache  for  balm. 

She  has  forgotten,  may  not  tell,  what  drove  her 
To  hide  beneath  the  seaweed  and  the  ooze; 

To  sink  herself  in  deeps  that  billowed  over, 
Then  swept  her  up  for  rocks  to  break  and  bruise. 


60 


She  has  forgotten  our  moon-silvered  bowers, 
How  still  they  were,  and  how  the  gathered  grass 

Made  all  a  pillow  for  the  gallant  hours 
We  shared,  this  that  was  she,  and  I,  alas! 

She  has  forgotten  where,  by  river  shallows, 
We  sat  and  chanted  all  our  happy  vows, 

The  while  she  fed  me  flag  root  and  sweet  mallows 
And  let  me  kiss  between  her  fragrant  brows. 

She  has  forgotten  how  we  leaned  and  lingered 
To  hear  the  nightingale's  alluring  lay, 

Till  azure  evening  came,  with  starry  fingers, 
And  brought  a  new  enchantment  to  the  day. 

She  has  forgotten, — can  it  be? — those  mountains 
That  circled  us  as  once,  beyond  the  sea, 

We  wandered  seeking  joy's  eternal  fountains, 
We  two, — Celeste!  have  you  forgotten  me? 


61 


THE  WAVE 


Wind  my  master  is,  I  am  his  slave. 
Is  he  aweary  of  his  zephyring, 
He  leaves  the  garden  or  the  green  low  grave, 
Where  late  he  sighed  or  pleasured  wantoning, 
And  straightway  hurls  him  to  the  midmost  sea 
And  lays  about  him  with  his  nine-tailed  whip, 
Bidding  me  rise  (the  while  he  scourges  me) 
And  from  my  bosom  dash  the  helpless  ship; 
Litter  the  good  deep  sea,  the  bountiful, 
With  flotsam  of  her  broken  masts  and  men; 
Rouse  up  the  shark,  summon  the  screaming  gull, 
To  come  and  glean  behind  the  hurricane. 

His  lash  is  on  my  shoulder;  I  must  leap 
Servile  before  him,  knowing,  where  I  pass, 
That  isles  and  sunny  shoals  are  smothered  deep, 
And  lifted  hands  of  those  that  drown.  Alas, 
So  is  it,  till  the  mad  wind  cries:  No  more! 
Then  penitent  I  turn  and  creep  away, 
Spread  my  spent  fingers  on  some  sunlit  shore, 
And  smooth  the  sands  where  little  children  play. 


62 


TREASURE  TROVE 


o 


N  his  first  honey  quest,  the  errant  bee 
Left  the  known  hive-paths  of  his  native  air 
And  gaily,  flight  on  flight,  came  humming 

where 
Lone  lilies  lay  upon  a  small  sweet  sea. 

"Here  will  I  quench  my  maiden  thirst,"  he  quoth, 
Dipping  from  meagre  chalices  a  taste, 
But  those  cool  flowers  had  only  kept  them  chaste 
At  cost  of  treasure  and  of  sweetness  both. 

Forthwith  on  wiser  wing  the  insect  goes 
Back  to  the  lawless  hillsides,  where  between 
Close-sprinkled  rocks,  bright  heads  bayed  round 

with  green, 
The  nectared  buckwheat  of  the  desert  grows. 


63 


REPUDIATION 

BROKE  a  pathway  through  the  stars, 
I  smote  them  left  and  right, 

And  on,  past  Jupiter  and  Mars, 
I  sped  in  bitter  flight. 

'Twas  Life  her  promise  had  forsworn, 

Had  looked  me  in  the  eyes, 
The  jade,  and  said:  "I  can  no  more; 

Betake  you  to  the  skies 

To  prate  of  constancy.  The  earth 

Is  here  my  realm  and  place, 
Where  all  sweet  bodies  come  to  birth. 

I  give  no  other  grace 

Than  meat  and  drink  and  fleshly  joy. 

Perchance,  beyond  my  ken, 
Some  Liege  is  throned  who  grants  employ 

To  voided  souls  of  men. 

For  me,  I  loved  you  in  your  prime; 

What  then  I  asked,  you  gave. 
But  now  I  bid  my  servant  Time 

Be  quick  about  your  grave. 

There  sit  my  harpies  in  a  ring; 

My  vultures  wait  their  fill; 
And  while  I  go  to  meet  the  spring, 

They  also  do  my  will." 


64 


Tears  could  not  move  her,  no,  nor  wrath, 

The  sorry  light-o'-love, 
So  up  along  the  starward  path, 

Among  the  shining  drove, 

I  come,  an  exile  from  the  sod, 

Mounting  with  mortal  strife 
To  seek  upon  the  knees  of  God, 

A  recompense  for  life. 


65 


IDEALISTS 

IG  hearts  and  open  minds  and  splendid  souls! 

(God,  did  You  make  them,  knowing  what 

You  did?) 
Balked  in  the  way  and  frustrate  of  the  goal, 

Or  dragged  to  battle  in  a  cause  that's  hid; 

Around  them  conflict,  blood  on  every  hand, 

Twice-sickened  with  the  sight  of  mortal  pain, 
Against  the  evil  of  the  world  they  stand, 
Or  fall  among  the  wounded  and  the  slain. 

A  song  they  have,  and  have  no  place  to  sing; 

A  word,  nor  theater  in  which  to  speak, 
The  tumult  deafens  in  the  noisy  ring 

Of  sotted  souls  that  know  not  what  they  seek, 

Carousing  onward,  dull  convoying  dull, 
Jostling  each  other  in  the  press  of  strife; 

Miser  and  libertine  and  rogue  and  trull, 

That  thing  they  like  they  make  of  this  one  life; 

But  what  of  these  near  angels  among  men, 
Whose  eyes  keep  steadfast  to  the  farthest  star, 

Diviner  Daniels  in  the  human  den? 

(God,  did  You  make  them,  knowing  what  they  are?) 


66 


THE  HERMIT 

HALT  ye  and  hear,  Philosopher  and  Sage 
And  Little  Ones  that  cower  in  the  night! 
To  me,  a-musing  in  my  hermitage, 
Has  come  the  certain  vision  and  the  light. 

In  the  beginning,  ere  beginning  was, 

Was  That  which  is  and  without  end  shall  be. 
(The  world  attests  it  with  anathemas; 
Or  vows  it  chanting  in  an  ecstasy.) 

But  What  was  That,  or  Who  was  That,  and  Why, 
Though  saints  may  supplicate  and  pagans  rage, 

There  comes  no  answer  from  the  baffled  sky; 
No  oracle  from  sorcerer  or  mage. 

(There,  up  and  down,  the  long  procession  goes; 

Logicians  peering  sidewise  through  the  night; 
Mourners  and  travailers,  they  all  are  those 
Who  seek  a  vision  and  who  grope  for  light.) 

"But  what  was  there  the  vast  all-void  to  fill?" 
There  is  no  speech  nor  language  tells  you  that. 

"  Timeless  Desire  and  thereto  boundless  Will?" 
Enquire  and  speculate  and  die  thereat. 

In  the  beginning  when  man's  seasons  came 
And  all  that  should  be  his  began  to  be, 

The  embryonic  earth,  the  solar  flame, 
The  vast  unrest  that  stilled  and  was  the  sea, 


67 


Something  there  was  which  willed  and  was  aware, 
Inclusive  Consciousness,  of  life  and  us 

And  the  illimitable  all  we  may  not  share; 
Unuttered  word  that  yet  was:  Be  it  thus! 

And  nothing  of  that  Cause  we  know  nor  can; 

We  have  no  thoughts  deriving  from  that  Mind; 
The  Primal  Alien  is  no  kin  to  man; 

Not  in  that  Image  mortals  were  designed. 

But  whatsoever  called  this  universe 
Out  of  the  was  not,  to  the  now  and  is, 

It  was  no  whimsy  of  a  will  perverse, 

Could  conjure  man  to  wreck  him  with  a  kiss; 

Could  model  eyes  to  see  and  ears  to  hear 
Enticing  them  with  color  and  with  sound; 

Make  sense  to  feel  and  soul  to  know  sense  dear, 
And  give  no  wings  to  lift  us  from  the  ground; 

Make  teeming  brain  to  guess  and  speculate 
And  heart  to  languish  after  living  truth, 

And  give  no  truth  that  might  with  reason  mate, 
Us  to  deliver  from  our  doubt  and  ruth. 

But  lo,  coincident  with  finitude, 

In  precedent  response  to  human  need, 
God  was  with  man  in  man's  similitude. 
(The  vision  and  the  light  are  in  this  creed.) 

He  who  is  Love,  we  say,  and  Righteousness, 
The  God  the  ages  alter  and  amend, — 

More  with  our  more,  and  less  when  we  are  less, — 
With  man  beginning  had,  with  man  shall  end. 


68 


If  there  be  angels  also,  let  there  be, 
He  is  enough.  He  is  so  much,  it  seems 

He  hath  the  measure  of  infinity, 
The  perfectness  we  plain  for  in  our  dreams. 

Be  He  nor  Daysman  nor  Interpreter 
Perchance  He  guesses  somewhat  of  the  plan 

Of  the  Unknowable  Artificer 

Who  made  Him,  for  His  vassals,  God  and  Man. 

"  Was  God  for  us;  were  we  for  Him  designed? 

What  profit  in  such  futile  questioning  1 
Ours  hold  the  content  of  eternal  mind? 
The  Potter  to  the  clay  His  secret  bring? 

The  circle  east  and  west  that  hems  us  round, 

Horizons  Time  and  Immortality. 
The  vaster  view  would  our  small  wits  confound, 

That  hardly  can  discern  what  now  they  see. 

Our  God  is  all  sufficient  for  our  day. 

In  the  beginning  with  the  morn  He  came 
And  with  the  night  and  us  shall  pass  away. 

Yet  are  we  happy  who  have  named  His  Name! 


69 


BABYLON 

^-^•^HERE  now  is  barren  silence,  hoary  calm, 
m    if    •  Once  echoed  from  proud  arch  and  propylon 
1    I    W  The  voice  of  Life  in  serenade  and  psalm; 
^<MS  The  air  was  vibrant  with  the  spoken  word. 
Where  now  he  sings  thy  requiem,  this  brave  bird 
Once  sang  thy  glory  fadeless,  Babylon! 

Thy  merchants  chaffered  as  they  bought  and  sold 

Treasure  of  caravan  and  galleon; 

All  we  adventure  they  essayed  for  gold, 

For  heart's  desire,  for  fame,  for  victory; 

And  bravely  wrought  thy  troops  on  land  and  sea, 

Triumphed  or  died, — it  was  for  Babylon. 

God  of  the  earth,  we  are  no  more  than  they! 
They  rose  up  eager  with  the  morn  begun, 
And  weary  laid  them  down  at  close  of  day; 
Spread  tables  with  the  varied  bread  of  toil; 
They  threshed  and  vinted  harvests  from  the  soil; 
Built  storehouses  and  barns,  in  Babylon; 

Built  palaces;  built  temples  on  the  hill, 
Where  women  hardly  their  salvation  won, 
Hushing  their  souls  beneath  the  god's  rude  will. 
We  call  their  blazoned  virtue  infamy; 
The  incense  from  our  altars,  it  may  be, 
Shall  rise  no  nearer  heaven,  Babylon! 


70 


Where  outcast  hyssop  trails  her  slattern  foot, 
Waste  hostelry  whose  board  the  wild  bees  shun, 
Where  never  wandering  rose  will  pause  and  root, 
A  queen  once  walked  and  found  her  garden  fair 
And  smiled  upon  her  king  in  suppliance  there; 
Just  as  we  love,  they  loved  in  Babylon. 

O  Present,  hang  thy  harps  upon  the  trees, 

The  willow  trees  that  girt  Oblivion. 

There  wail  Time's  captives  still  upon  their  knees, 

Still  importuning  skies  of  brass,  as  then 

They  knelt  and  agonized, — forgotten  men, 

Who  passed,  nor  dreamed  of  thee,  in  Babylon. 


71 


THE  FIG-TREE 

DO  bloom  attends  thy  fecund  burgeoning, 
Thou  denizen  of  deserts  round  the  world; 
No  fertile  pollen,  here  and  yonder  whirled, 
Carries  thy  colors  on  adventurous  wing; 
Yet  wert  thou  there,  ablaze  with  pristine  spring, 
A  shelter  and  a  sweet,  when  man  was  hurled 
Out  of  that  valley  where  Euphrates  curled. 
Love's  nightingales  learned  first  in  thee  to  sing. 

I  stand  beneath  thee  as  those  culprits  stood, 
Who  had  of  thee  green  veils  for  primal  shame 
And  blessed  thee  for  that  gift  and  thought  it  good, 
Till  God  into  His  altered  garden  came 
And  all  His  anger  seared  thy  blossomy  bower. 
Shall  never  spring  renew  thy  ruddy  flower? 


72 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

'LONG  the  selfsame  flags  the  footsteps  fall, 

The  sturdy  stones  are  here  that  used  to  be, 
Across  the  same  swift  spaces  voices  call; 
The  change  you  bear,  my  City,  few  can  see. 

Like  fabled  mother  of  some  hero's  brood 
Who  had  not  time  to  weep  her  glory  gone, 

Nor  sit  in  ashes  where  her  idols  stood, 
But,  gathering  her  children,  struggled  on; 

So,  open-eyed,  and  sweeter  for  your  woe, 
You  smother  back  your  sighs  into  your  breast, 

And  cover  up  the  ragged  scars  that  show 
Where  Death  tore  at  your  beauty's  loveliest. 

Yet  this  know  I,  that  hear  your  noontime  song, 
There's  many  a  night  you  beat  against  the  sky 

And  shudder  for  that  April,  gone  so  long, 
That  broke  your  heart  but  would  not  let  you  die. 


73 


THE  ENEMY 

Y  so,  Sir  Death,  about  my  door  again! 

Come  then,  old  Enemy,  and  talk  of  truce. 
'Tis  not  clean  warfare,  this  of  thine  with  men, 
Entrapping  them  with  ambuscade  and  ruse. 

Not  against  challenge  fair  we  go  in  arms: 

The  stealth,  the  sudden  onslaught,  the  surprise, 

Our  woes  at  dawn,  our  fearful  night  alarms; — 
Against  these  coward  tactics  we  uprise; 

We  who  have  not  a  blade  thou  canst  not  turn 
Upon  itself,  to  pierce  the  stoutest  heart; 

Whom  no  maneuver  we  are  deft  to  learn 
Can  fend  from  thine  inexorable  dart. 

This  is  not  warfare;  out  into  the  field! 

We  ask  not  quarter,  but  to  know  thy  place. 
Give  us  to  see  the  strength  to  which  we  yield; 

Set  us  a  time  to  parley  face  to  face. 

Now  then,  let  me  be  spokesman  for  my  kind: 
I  say  thou  wilt  not,  if  thou  be  true  knight, 

Creep  on  a  sleeping  foe  nor,  from  behind, 

Deal  him  the  blow,  thou  keeping  out  of  sight. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  him  lingering  on  the  ground, 
Broken  and  bruised,  with  silence  all  about, 

Knowing  not  why  he  bleeds  nor  from  what  wound 
His  soul's  red  ardor  seeps  and  trickles  out. 


74 


Thou  wilt  not  stalk  him  in  the  groves  of  May, 
Hid  with  his  darling  in  the  perfumed  dark; 

Nor  steal  his  little  cradled  child  away 
And  mock  his  weeping  when  he  folds  it  stark. 

Thou  wilt  not  meanly  hector  him  and  plague 

With  whispered  threats  and  flashings  of  thy  sword, 

Nor  give  his  gallant  "When?"  rejoinder  vague, 
But  stand  unvisored  and  pronounce  the  word. 

I  say  thou  art  no  henchman  of  the  gods, 
To  harry  thus  their  kingdom  and  their  kin; 

I  think  they  cannot  know  what  hopeless  odds 
We  strive  against  between  thyself  and  sin. 

Man  from  his  makers  came,  no  pale  poltroon; 

In  his  first  clay  was  mixed  Olympian  stuff; 
But  Life's  advance  beset  him  oversoon 

And  gave  him  for  his  courage  use  enough. 

Labor's  vicissitudes  and  Love's  demands, 
They  keep  him  plying  sword  and  shield  and  spear, 

Yet  would  he  best  them,  battered  as  he  stands, 
But  for  the  tremor  of  untimely  fear. 

Then  truce!  thou  premier  of  antagonists, 
While  thy  brave  foe  recovers  in  that  strife, 

And  grant  him,  e'er  thou  drag  him  from  the  lists, 
But  time  to  finish  gallantly  with  Life! 


75 


MIRAGE 


OD,  I  forgive  thee  for  the  common  death, 
The  slighted  promise  and  the  end  of 

dreaming, 
But  not  that  one,  parched  with  the  desert's 

breath, 
Should  break  his  heart  to  find  the  pool  a  seeming. 


76 


THE  HARVEST 

ITTLE  feet  of  my  Will-o'-the-wisp,  of  my 

child,  that  vanished  as  fireflies  do, 
I  follow  you,  bent  to  the  burdened  earth, 

my  footsteps  sodden  and  slow, 
And  only  the  Angel  that  beckoned  you  hence 
knows  surely  the  way  that  I  go. 

Through  tulip  and  daffodil  gardens,  Sweet, 

your  springtime  journey  lay, 
But  I  have  not  rid  me  of  murk  and  mire 

since  you  danced  farewell  and  away, 
And  over  the  unhealed  sore  in  my  heart 

breaks  always  the  salt  sea  spray. 

The  frock  that  I  wove  you  was  white,  was  white 

as  the  lilies  I  dare  not  touch, 
And  I  know,  and  the  whole  world  knows  it  well, 

there's  a  Kingdom  of  Heaven  for  such; 
Will  the  fact  that  I  fashioned  so  fair  a  thing 

atone  for  my  garment's  smutch? 

Oh,  little  winged  feet  that  went  your  way 

in  the  dawn-time  long  ago, 
I  follow,  in  spite  of  the  mire  and  mist 

of  the  only  road  I  know; 
For  I  hold  that  somewhere  mothers  all 

shall  gather  the  seed  they  sow. 


77 


AUDIENCE 

H-O!  Thou  Arbiter  of  Times  and  Spaces 
Where  naught  transpires  but  gives  account 

to  Thee, 

Art  Thou  with  Buddha  in  the  musing  places? 
Ah-o,  I  call  Thee,  turn  and  answer  me  1 

Nay,  I  am  not  afraid  to  bear  Thine  anger, 
For  I  have  seen  Thy  children  in  their  woe; 

They  pass  all  day  with  shouts  and  noisy  clangor; 
I  know  what  road  they  take  and  where  they  go. 

Nay,  I  am  not  afraid  of  Thee,  for  listen! 

That  was  the  cry  of  maidenhood  oppressed, 
And  see!  beneath  those  trinkets'  gaudy  glisten, 

There  hangs  a  broken,  tear-bedraggled  breast. 

Nay!  could  I  rouse  Thee  from  Thy  too  long  sleeping, 
And  tell  Thee  of  the  youths  and  make  Thee  look 

How  they  are  sowing  and  for  what  a  reaping, 
Thou  mightest  blot  my  name  out  of  Thy  book. 

I  will  not  ask  for  me  that  Thou  be  gracious, 
But  only  wake  and  save  the  children,  God, 

That  crowd  red  hells  while  Heaven  leans  blue 

and  spacious; 
Sathanas  at  his  work  with  lure  and  prod. 

Thy  voice  would  save  them.  Nay?  Then  go 
Thou  after. 

Be  there  to  find  Thy  fallen  where  they  lie. 
Mayhap,  between  dull  curse  and  ribald  laughter, 

Will  sound  an  echo  of  Love's  natal  cry. 

78 


But  Oh,  be  quick!  My  heart  is  up  and  breaking 
To  meet  and  have  swift  audience  with  Thee, 

About  these  little  ones  Thou  art  forsaking; 
Ah-o,  I  call  Thee;  turn  and  answer  me! 


79 


A  TOAST  TO  SPRING 

GOME,  carouse  with  the  May,  tread  a  measure 
and  sing! 
The  year  is  full  long  from  the  spring  to  the 
spring, 

And  may  be  'tis  the  last  gentle  Fortune  shall 
bring—  Here,s  to  Springl 

The  season  of  frost-bloom  and  snow-flower 

is  gone; 

Now  mating  and  nesting  begin  with  the  dawn; 
The  yeoman's  a  lover  and  boasts  of  his 

brawn-  Here's  to  Spring! 

And  She  in  her  garden  and  You  in  your  field, 
With  that  in  your  two  hearts  must  soon  be 

revealed, 
Are  glad  with  the  young  hope  of  love's 

maiden  yield  -  Here,g  tQ  Spring, 

And  though  the  lone  hollow  behind  the  green 

hill 

Is  empty  of  birds  and  of  laughter  is  still; 
By  the  spring  may  we  know  the  dead  rise 

if  God  will,-  Here's  to  Spring! 


80 


Then  riot  and  revel,  come  trip  it  and  sing! 
Full  long  is  the  year  from  the  spring  to  the 

spring, 
And  what  if  this  last  be  the  last  Time  shall 

brin£  —  Here's  to  Spring! 


81 


THE  RIDERS 

ESE  drag  the  bridle,  dullards,  lifting  up 
Eyelids  opaque  to  the  illumined  skies; 
Turning  deaf  ears  to  earth's  fine  minstrelsie? 
Their  lips  unquickened  from  Love's  wassail 

cup. 

They  ride  unnerved,  with  Terror  at  the  crup. 
Let  pass;  here  come  Faith's  brave  allies, 
Defying  ambush,  fearless  of  surprise; 
At  Life's  most  frugal  inns  they  gladly  sup. 

Nathless,  their  bodies,  soft  beneath  the  mail, 
Could  feel  the  prick  of  sword,  the  scathe  of  fire; 
Partake  with  appetite  Joy's  trencher-cheer; 
Pay  tribute  sweet  to  beauty  and  desire. 
Yet  shall  they  never  be  unhorsed  by  Fear; 
It  is  God's  secret,  why  they  may  not  fail! 


82 


THE  HOUR 

OT  among  fevered  pillows  let  me  lie, 
While  slowly  Life  departs  and  Death 

draws  nigh; 

My  limbs  contorted  with  last  agonies, 
My  face  a  mirror  of  the  dread  it  sees. 

Being  so  loved,  I  would  not  be  alone, 
With  only  silence  to  receive  my  moan, 
Yet  would  it  make  my  tortures  infinite 
To  see  Grief  bowed  beside  me  day  and  night. 

Courage,  Thou  Weaver  of  this  mortal  dress, 
Give  me,  when  I  resume  my  nakedness. 
Grant  me  an  hour  and  name  me  such  a  place 
As  shall  allow  me  with  a  gallant  grace, 

Return  to  Thee  this  garment,  clean  and  whole. 
A  gift  it  was;  I  thank  Thee  for  the  dole. 
Take  it  not  from  me,  Donor,  rag  by  rag, 
While  at  the  hands  of  Fear  I  clutch  and  drag. 

Seek  me  not  in  my  chamber,  but  away, 
Climbing  some  hill  at  dawn,  or  hard  at  play 
With  butterflies  and  beauties  of  the  field; 
Then  would  I  kiss  Thy  courteous  hand  and  yield. 

Or  follow  me  into  the  storm's  ado, 
And  with  Thy  lightnings  rive  my  heart  in  two; 
No  lovers  there,  no  strangers  watching  me, 
But  in  my  mortal  need,  alone  with  Thee! 


83 


THE  SEA  MY  BROTHER 

HE  sea,  contending  with  the  morning  tide, 

Surges  and  tumbles  in  a  wild  unrest. 
Meanwhile  he  hails  me:  "Brother,  keep  aside 
Lest  I  should  hurt  you,  being  sore  possessed. 

"This  is  my  plague,  this  madness  of  the  moon, 

That  racks  me  day  by  day  and  night  by  night. 
Each  tide  I  pray  the  witch  may  end  it  soon 
Or  mingle  mercy  with  her  cruel  might. 

"But  there  she  hangs,  smiling  her  thin  white  smile, 

And  tugging  like  a  vampire  at  my  breast; 
Watching  convulsions  shatter  me  the  while. 
My  anguish  is  the  savor  of  her  zest. 

"In  all  her  long  pursuing  after  me, 

I  give  her  nothing,  though  in  weariness, 
For  torment,  I  would  void  me  utterly 
If  she  would  leave  me  to  my  emptiness. 

"I  know  not  if  it  be  myself  she  seeks, 

Or  wishes  evil  to  my  brother,  man, 
Poor  oaf,  who  reckons  by  her  months  and  weeks, 
Is  gay  or  sad  as  she  may  bless  or  ban. 

"He  does  not  know  that  I  would  be  his  friend, 

Bland  and  inert  in  this  abyssal  cup; 
That  were  my  long  affliction  at  an  end, 

I  would  lie  quiet  till  he  dip  me  up. 


84 


"The  vexing  winds  that  have  me  for  their  prey, 
Would  cease  to  buffet  if  the  tides  were  still; 
Would  help  me  bear  good  ships  upon  their  way 
If  only  to  outdo  me  in  good-will. 

"I  would  not  harm  a  hair  of  man's  poor  head 

That  has  so  much  to  bear  from  ruthless  Earth, 
Who  makes  him  suffer,  even  in  his  bed, 
From  cold  and  heat  and  storm  and  drouth  and 
dearth. 

"But  though  I  am  this  moon-mad,  driven  thing, 

(Blame  that  ill  mistress  for  the  harm  I  do;) 
There  is  but  one  destruction  I  can  bring; 
For  all  her  evil  lure  my  sins  are  few. 

"Earth  has  her  myriad  deaths,  the  sea  but  one; 

Beside  her  many,  my  sole  way  is  best: 
A  swirling  dream  before  the  pang  is  done; 
A  little  smother  of  the  breath,  and  rest." 


85 


LITTLE  FIELDS  O'SUMMER 


o 


LITTLE  fields  o'summer,  Summer's  gone! 
The  Wind  came  by,  'twas  yesterday,  post 

haste, 

And  found  her  with  her  kirtle  strings  undone, 
And  whipped  her  tattered  smock  about  her 

waist 


And  bit  her  cheek  for  being  overbold, 
And  bade  her  seek  another  trysting  place, 
Since  all  the  year  turned  from  her  and  was  cold; 
But  still  she  went  with  smiles  upon  her  face. 

O  fields  betrayed,  and  had  you  never  heard 
What  light-o'-love  she  was  that  hither  came 
And  tricked  you  with  her  magic?  Every  bird 
And  bloom  she  was  so  false  to  knows  her  name. 

When  once  they  trusted  her  and  gave  their  best, 
She  took  and  used  them  for  her  dalliance, 
Then  strewed  the  flowers  and  emptied  out  the  nest, 
Laughing  that  Love  had  lost  his  puissance. 

O  little  fields,  I  grieve  that  there  you  lie, 
Uncovered  and  unkissed,  where  swoops  the  blast 
And  taunts  you  with  his  tidings:  " Summer's  by, 
That  vowed  betimes  and  left  you  lorn  at  last." 

And  I  that  love  each  wimpling  weed  of  you, 
Because  of  one  that  strayed  from  moon  till  dawn 
Along  your  paths,  I  weep  my  mistress  too. 
O  little  fields  o'summer,  Summer's  gone! 


86 


THE  SUMMIT 

HDDENLY,  calm  in  the  tumult; 

Suddenly,  lull  in  the  storm; 
And  the  bitter  clouds  have  parted 
And  Oh,  but  the  sun  shines  warm! 

There  are  golden  reaches  round  me 

Of  a  world  that's  well  worth  while, 
And,  singing,  I  tell  my  Leader: 
"I  will  go  on  now  and  smile. 

'I  will  leave  my  tears  behind  me 

With  the  dew  on  gardens  past; 
For  I  stand  knee-deep  in  gladness 

And  my  hands  are  full  at  last. 

' Oh,  on!"  But  you  do  not  beckon, 

'And  this  is  the  end  for  me?' 
Why,  Friend, — 'You  are  Death,' — Come  nearer; 

Nay,  I  know  you,  Victory! 


87 


LANGUAGE 


e> 


HERE  was  no  path  to  his  place  in  the  air, 
The  oriole  swinging  and  singing  his  prayer 
To  his  distant  lady  to  meet  him  there; 
But  this  I  heard  him  say,  I  swear: 

"Come  two  flights  south  and  three  flights  west, 
The  palm  is  here  that  will  suit  thee  best.-" 
How  else  had  she  found  them,  love  and  a  nest? 


88 


FARE  ON! 


O 


EAR  Heart,  the  burning  ploughshares  have 

not  cooled 
Since  first  they  flayed  the  naked  foot  of 

man; 

Through  all  the  years  the  wilful  soul  is  schooled, 
As  when  in  Eden  the  long  task  began. 

But  make  no  outcry;  you  are  not  alone 
Upon  the  Highway  of  the  Thousand  Fires. 

With  griefs  like  these  are  all  the  hedgerows  sown, 
And  every  pit  is  brimmed  with  lost  desires. 


89 


MONOTONY 


90 


WAY  with  the  old,  bring  the  new,  sing  the 

new!" 

They  cry,  the  importunate  children  of  men; 
Yet  God  bids  the  nightingale:  "When  you 

are  through 
Sing  the  same  lovely  canticle  over  again." 


HUMILIATION 

WALKED  with  Pride  along  the  wind-blown 
height, 

Baying  the  sun  by  day,  the  stars  by  night. 

Brave  was  my  road-fellow  and  full  of  song 
And  ever  sang  of  me,  the  way  along. 
We  gazed  Narcissus-wise  in  all  the  dew 
And  said:  "How  like  we  image,  I  and  you!" 

Then  raged  the  storm  round  our  incautious  feet 
And  I  fell  fathoms  downward  from  Conceit, 
To  where  abysses  of  lost  tears  embowl, 
And  in  that  tarn  envisaged,  saw  my  soul! 


91 


THE  RUNNER 

high-road  calls  and  are  you  stumbling, 

then? 

Bind  up  your  sandals;  yonder  come  the  men 
Grouped  to  outrun  you!  Never  mind  the  sun; 
'Twill  set.  On,  with  the  news  from  Marathon! 


92 


HERE,  THEN,  ARE  THOSE  SONGS  WHICH  HAVE  BEEN 

SUNG  FROM  TIME  TO  TIME  BY  ONE  FANNY    HODGES 

NEWMAN,  WHO    IS    RIGHT   WELL   PLEASED   TO   FIND 

THEM  MADE  INTO  THIS  BOOK  AT  THE  PLACE  OF  THE 

WELL-BE-SPOKEN  PUBLISHERS,  PAUL  ELDER  d*  COM- 

PANY,IN  THE  CITY  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO;  THE  MAKING 

OF  THE  BOOK,  THE  PRINTING  OF  IT  IN  THE  TOMOYE 

PRESS,  AND  THEREAFTER  THE  BINDING,  BEING  DONE 

UNDER  THE  MOST  EXCELLENT  DIRECTION  AND  WITH 

THE  GOOD  WILL  OF  JOHN  BERNHARDT  SWART;  ALL 

BEING  BEGUN  AND  FINISHED  SHORTLY  BEFORE  THE 

FIRST  DAY  OF  THE  MONTH  OF  DECEMBER  IN 

THE  YEAR  NINETEEN  HUNDRED 

AND  THIRTEEN 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


AUG  11 


20?n-l,'22 


YC   1 4463 


270560 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


